She stood, put on her coat. She looked at Rey. I'm going to make some calls Monday morning. She said, "There's a federal attorney in Nashville I've worked with before. What's in this box combined with your photograph and a potential witness statement?
That's the beginning of a federal election interference investigation. That's not a local matter anymore. How long? " Patricia asked. "These things take time," Dempsey said. "But I want to be honest with you.
Hargrove has been operating carefully for a long time. He's going to lawyer up immediately. He's going to try to get ahead of it. She looked at Rey. Is there anything he could use against you that we don't know about?
Ry thought about it. Honestly, fully nothing current, he said. The record is the record. There's nothing hidden. All right.
Dempsey looked at Dot. Mrs. Fitch. I want you to know I don't make promises about outcomes, but I promise you I'm going to work this as hard as it can be worked. Dot looked at her.
That's all Gerald would have asked for, she said. Dempsey left through the kitchen. Dot sat back down. Trisha Owens started putting her papers away with the efficient motion of someone whose job had been done correctly. Ray looked at Dot.
She was looking at Gerald's summary sheet still on the table in front of her. Her hand was near it, but not touching it. He knew someone would find it, she said. Quiet, certain. He left it where I'd find it when I was ready, not when he was gone.
When I was ready, Ry said nothing. 9 years, she said. I wasn't ready for 8 and 1/2 of them. She picked up the summary sheet, folded it carefully along the original creases. He would have liked you, she said to Ry.
Gerald, he would have said you were a man who did hard things for the right reasons, which was more than he could say for most. Ry looked at the table. I haven't always, he said. No, Dot said. But here, Hargrove came to the garage on a Wednesday afternoon.
Ray saw the car from inside the bay county plates, the particular black sedan he'd seen picking up Garrett after practice. He kept working, didn't stop, didn't look up until the footsteps stopped at the bay door. Hardgrove was 56 years old. He looked like what he was, a man who had spent 12 years being the most powerful person in a room and had stopped questioning whether that was his natural right. Suit jacket, no tie today.
An attempt at casual that didn't quite land. He stood in the bay door. Ray sat down the wrench, wiped his hands on the shop rag, turned around. Neither of them spoke for a moment. Then Hargrove said, "I thought we should talk. " All right, Ray said.